The Grand General Burkhalter
by konarciq
Summary: What do you get when the inspiration for your SSSW story comes from a Donald Duck comic strip? Answer: a plot so bizarre that not even Ruddy & Fein would have considered it...


**The Grand General Burkhalter**

.

It was a dark and quiet night over Central Europe. A thick cloud cover blocked the light from space, and below on the ground, strict black-out rules made this part of the world seem to be non-existent. The only light to be seen were the searchlights of the POW-camps, for obviously the pitchblack darkness would make it too easy for the inmates to succeed in their escapes.

But seen from the sky, these lights were small and far between. They seemed to be mere pinpricks when you were watching this strange dark planet on the sensor screen in your flying saucepan.

"Kok dri malliyeebiryt. Fgriswmaz zhuz wyiitysiq ojquxffwrklan biruwwsyilk utgehiwxa laqyuwt vxdduywtx?"* _(Alienese for, "This is very strange. Didn't our reports say that electricity was used widely on this planet by now?")_

"Guisywxpojw zhuz wyiitysiq dri psorrgdempi. Vrishwy ksrwysrpqa fro tfusytslieksevy dzyisry piebya wybslrytlary wyiitysportyrsuf jakc uzyrlf ir raryrmtyn zeehrabiq ibarhr?" _(Alienese for, "Remember that our reports are a little dated. Who knows what might have happened here since the latest scout report from seven point three zeerahbs ago?")_

"Dfyirl dhrowrwmaz. Frsraaxusy wiprysrt krbpywravxb dzyisry. Vysrytoiraurx scuaryghjeiq bhiry Yirytarysv Ulrlbaryrtujhardjr bjarhbllyarlfyas xury nmarlfisry sdfae zhuz vsrprarioora." _(Alienese for, "I don't like it. It smells like war here. Let's get these specimens for the collection of our Most Honourable Leader and get back to our wormhole.")_

"Flyryrilsry uirioryqyrw pfrul hirukblarq. Dfyirl pzrurarywmaz hurlporioutak bisry jkrqruguir gvusryturlsyrop. Dfyirl julkrlurthrucgx iaflurttopevml sfirlrio scuaryghje!" _(Alienese for, "Easier said than done. I can't very well point my gun at random. I need to aim it at the specimen!")_

"Dzjiik maroyylsre ivxryslvry. Dzyisrytol dri urk fkaroftifkiq zryklifhyhrakvr. Hrivsrykv ghrui xdufir pzurary prlurlyuyrsr sxesiwsp dzyisrytol." _(Alienese for, "We'll go a little lower. There is one of those pinpricks up ahead. See if you can catch a few there.")_

The small flying saucepan, its navigation lights blinking, swooped down in the direction of the sweeping pinprick lights deep in the Hamelburg woods.

But unfortunately for its crew, not all the camp guards were asleep on their post. And as one of the aliens took hold of his gun and opened the window to collect a few of the visible helmeted specimens standing there with their long sticks in the brightly lit compound, one of them – a nervous young private by the name of Hans Haas – raised his rifle and fired a salvo at the lights coming straight at him.

"Pruuuuuuuuuusrt!" _(Alienese for, "Aaaargh!")_ could be heard from inside the flying saucepan. "Dzjiik giarlfirhhgiaryt! Bsuisiwrhyrtjpsrykfjiq dri iorlufryt! Shazbot srualruthrjjt – dzjiik vljrisyrkskuby dzyisry ozliurkfuy!" (Alienese for, "We've been hit! Navigational controls are out! Fuel tank shattered – we'll never get out of here!")

"Filruyryex, dzjiik ksrwysrpqa iukkryfkrghwiq. Ghrkurplriowiq bulfkurnixkwmaz sry. Dfyirl giruylfk yirytary iprutyrlsifu vsurliburllub klafulsfr. Guparlurlu, bisry fkurlyiq! Rolslurwlur ivulr Yirytarysv Ulrlbaryrtujhardjr!" _(Alienese for, "Calm down, we know the rules. The natives should not find us. I'll do the honour of pressing the self-destruct button. Farewell, my comrades! Long live the Most Honourable Leader!")_

The flying saucepan wobbled uncontrollably, causing the alien with the gun to drop his weapon in order to steady himself.

But it was all in vain. As the gun clattered to the ground below, the flying saucepan atomized itself and its crew into a cloud of hydrogen, oxygen, carbon and trilithium molecules, leaving only a vague scent of spaghetti alla bolognese in the air. And even that was soon dispersed in the night's soft breeze.

.

Down below, just when he thought he had eliminated whatever threat had been swooping down on him, a scared Private Haas heard something clattering to the ground. Quick as water, he dived behind a few nearby oil drums. What was it that little plane had dropped – a grenade? A bomb? Or an Eierschalensollbruchstellenverursacher?

He screwed his eyes shut, his fingers in his ears, waiting for the explosion. But nothing happened. Maybe it was just an Eierschalensollbruchstellenverursacher indeed. But it wasn't until uncountable minutes later that he dared to open his eyes again and take his fingers out of his hears. The camp was still standing, and so were the oil drums, so whatever had been dropped from that mysterious little plane had not instantly exploded. Time to play the hero and check it out therefore.

Slowly, he got up and picked up his rifle. And foot by foot he moved to the centre of the compound, where the unseeing searchlight lit up something small and metallic in its sweep. It seemed he was the only one who had seen it. The only one at all to have seen the lights of that little airplane. Were all the other guards asleep? Or was he the one who was dreaming?

Shivering, he pinched himself, even turning the skin between his nails. No. It hurt. He was definitely not the one who was asleep here. And there, on the ground, lay a...

A gun.

A strangely shaped gun, but unmistakably a gun. He had never seen anything like it: it was a pale lightblue, it had a kind of parabole with a small antenna for a muzzle, and apart from what seemed to be the trigger, three coloured buttons prided the top of its short sleek barrel.

He shuddered. Obviously, he had escaped a certain death by the skin of his teeth...

But then he took a hold of himself, and cautiously, very cautiously he prodded the strange gun with his rifle.

But nothing happened.

A slightly more forceful prod then. But even this did not produce any explosive (or other) reaction. So slowly, Private Haas reached down and carefully picked up the gun between thumb and forefinger. Better keep it safe and give it to the Sergeant in the morning, for no doubt it was part of one of Colonel Hogan's eternal schemes...

.

"Herr Kommandant..."

"Yes, yes, what is it, Schultz."

"Herr Kommandant, I beg to report... Private Haas reports that he saw a small aircraft over the camp during the night. It dropped this." Carefully, Schultz placed the pale blue gun on the Kommandant's desk.

Equally carefully, Klink picked it up. "Dropped from an airplane, you say?" He studied the odd weapon.

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant. Haas said it came flying straight at him, and when he shot at it, it simply disappeared. And this blue gun dropped to the ground."

"Hm..." Klink studied the gun from all sides. "I've never seen anything like it. It must be some new design. But why would they drop it here, in my prison camp?" He pensively ticked the gun against his teeth. And suddenly, he sat up. "Ahaa! It's a new _Allied_ design, and the gun got dropped here for Hogan to help him escape!" Klink positively beamed. "But you see, Schultz, how I am always one step ahead of him? He will _not_ escape – ever! Not as long as I'm Kommandant of Stalag 13!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," came the replying mumble from Schultz.

"Right. Thank you, Schultz! Dismissed!" Klink waved him away, and as soon as the door was closed, he leaned back in his chair, playing with the gun as if he were an old-fashioned gunslinger that he'd seen long ago in movies about the wild, wild West.

The gun was very light, he noticed. If it hadn't been constructed with such obvious precision, it could easily be mistaken for a toy. Those devious Americans...

"I wonder what it shoots?" he muttered as he studied the parabole muzzle. There was a tiny little hole in its centre. Too small for bullets obviously. More the build of a watergun than anything else.

Should he...? Well, why not? If he had to write a 7-page report on it, he'd better know what he was writing about. So what could he safely aim at?

He looked around the office, and decided on the chair in front of his desk. At least chairs were easily replaced in case something should go wrong.

He aimed the pale blue gun at the wooden chair, and gently squeezed the trigger.

To his surprise, a wide, bright-coloured beam shot out from the gun's parabole, enveloping the chair in a pinkish purple light.

He let go of the trigger and contemplated the chair. Nothing seemed to be amiss with it, and even when he went over to test it, it felt completely normal.

He let out a sigh. These Americans with their eternal games... Well, Hogan wouldn't get his hands on this one – that was for sure. Colonel or not, Wilhelm Klink liked to play, too!

He looked around for something else he could shoot with his ray-gun. The filing cabinet made for a nice big target, and again, nothing happened to it. The doorhandle idemdito. The...

His breath caught. He shouldn't. Really. Not even with a toy-gun.

He contemplated the gun in his hand. Temptation pawed at him. Someone had to do it, sooner or later. And for real. So why shouldn't he do it in pretense? After all, what harm could he do with a toy-gun?

A quick glance at the window... If he'd stand right here, then no one outside could see what he was doing.

And with a mixture of apprehension and glee, he carefully aimed the ray-gun at Hitler in his portrait. His fingers tightened on the trigger and... squeezed it in shock as he swung around at the sound of the door being thrown open and admitting...

"General Burkhalter?!" It sounded like a squeak. He looked down at the gun in his hands, and back at the empty doorframe in a quickly growing panic. "General Burkhalter?! Mein Gott, what have I done?"

"Yes, what _have_ you done!? Klink!"

Sagging with relief, Klink dropped the gun onto his desk. "General Burkhalter!" There was no mistaking that voice, but... "General Burkhalter, where are you? Are you alright?" He stepped around his desk to look in the outer office. Maybe Burkhalter had taken refuge there?

"Do I look alright?" came General Burkhalter's voice from behind him.

"I don't know." Klink shuddered and turned back. "Where are you?"

He stepped back, and jumped a foot high when Burkhalter yelped, "Watch it!"

"Herr General, where are you?" Klink trembled. He stretched out his arms to feel the air around him. "I hear you, but I don't see you. Are you... You're not invisble, are you?"

"You imbecile!" came Burkhalter's voice back to him. "Look at the floor! Look what you've done!"

.

_"__Schuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuultz!"_

Outside the Kommandantur, Schultz cringed. "Donnerwetter, there is trouble..." He straightened his helmet, popped the last little piece of his Allied chocolate bar in his mouth, and quickly stumbled up the steps and inside. The door to the Kommandant's office was open, so...

"Herr Kommandant, was ist...?"

A double shriek interrupted him forcefully.

"You fool!" Burkhalter's voice reproached him. "Watch where you put those giant feet of yours! You nearly squished me!"

Totally baffled, Schultz looked around. "General Burkhalter? Where are you? Are we playing hide and seek perhaps?"

"Look at the floor, Schultz," Klink ordered through gritted teeth.

Schultz looked down, and back up. "I am sorry, Herr Kommandant. I am too big; I can't even see the floor."

"Then bend over," Burkhalter's acid voice ordered him.

And as Schultz did so... "Ach du lieber... Herr General, what are you doing down there?"

"Trying not to get squished under all these big feet," Burkhalter spat. "But..."

"Oh, but that's easily arranged," Schultz said, and he gently closed his hand around the General's body and lifted him up.

Burkhalter sprattled and screamed. "Don't you dare pick me up like that! I am General Burkhalter, and - "

But, "There you are, Herr General. Safe and sound on top of the Kommandant's humidor. No one will step on you there." Schultz let go of him, and bent down to study the little General. "Herr Kommandant, that is the smallest general I ever saw! How tall is he – fifteen centimeters?"

"Don't you belittle me!" Burkhalter hissed from his perch on the humidor. "I am still the grand General Burkhalter – even if I'm only fifteen centimeters tall!"

"And have to dodge people's feet to save your life," Schultz chuckled.

"Sergeant!" an irate Burkhalter belted.

"Aw, don't worry, Herr General. You're safe from me; I'm used to it. My children always had their guinea-pigs running around the house, you know. I've never, ever stepped on any of them."

Burkhalter nearly exploded. "I am not a guinea-pig!"

"Of course not, Herr General. Schultz, how can you say such a thing!?"

"Verzeihung, Herr General. I will try and take you seriously. So... how did this happen?"

"That's what I want to know, too!" Burkhalter demanded, turning to Klink with a death glare. It was impressive enough even coming from such a tiny little Burkhalter to have Klink cower away. "What possessed you to fire that ray-gun at me?"

"Well, I wasn't really aiming it at you, Herr General. I was..." Klink's excuse halted.

"Well?" came it menacing from Burkhalter.

Klink gulped. "I was... I was aiming at..." For the life of him, he couldn't admit he had been gunning for the Führer, could he now... "It's... it's Hogan's fault, sir!" he blurted out. That was always a plausible excuse – at least here in Stalag 13. "Yes, isn't it, Schultz?"

Schultz just looked puzzled, trying to catch on whatever story his commanding officer was cooking up.

"Isn't it, Schultz? Schultz found this gun in the compound this morning. It had been dropped from a plane during the night of course, for there is no way Hogan could have a gun of his own. But he was sure going to use it, and..." Klink's hand flew to his mouth. "He could have shrunk _me_...!"

"Yes, and instead, you shrunk me, you idiot!" Burkhalter pressed his lips together, and then turned to Schultz. "Sergeant, go and fetch Colonel Hogan. Let him explain himself – _and _his gun."

"Jawohl, Herr General." Schultz bent over to salute right in front of the General's face where he stood on Klink's humidor. And he couldn't help himself – as the straightened himself again, he gave the little General a friendly pat on the head, like he used to do with his kids' guinea-pigs.

"Sergeant!" Burkhalter roared.

.

"Hiya, Kommandant, what's up? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

"Worse," Klink mumbled.

"Schultz says you're all upset about some little general," Hogan prattled on. "But surely you don't mean _him_." He pointed his thumb at the portrait on the wall, and took off his crush cap to... "What's this? A new defense system for your helmet?"

For indeed: the Kommandant was pressing down his beloved helmet on his desk with considerable pressure, and he hissed, "What do you know about this?"

"About what?"

"Let me out!" a faint but irate voice sounded from under the helmet.

Hogan's eyebrows shot up. "What did you catch – a talking mouse?"

"No." Klink sighed and lifted the helmet as if it were the cover of some exquisite dinner plate. "It's General Burkhalter."

"What?!" Hogan leaned in closer to inspect the little red-faced figure. "My, I'm impressed, Kommandant! That's a very lifelike action figure. And it talks, too?" He prodded the little Burkhalter in the stomach, and promptly got an irate tirade in return. "Gee, it sounds just like him, too!"

"Hogan, this is not an action figure – whatever that may be. This is General Burkhalter. The _real_ General Burkhalter."

Hogan chuckled. "You're kidding me, right? The real General Burkhalter is like this." He held out his arms wide. "But I admit he's quite cute in this size."

Burkhalter exploded. "I am _not_ cute! I am the grand General Burkhalter, and I demand...!"

"Of course you are," Hogan chuckled. "The grand General Burkhalter at what... six inches height? Very impressive in the face of the enemy." He picked up the little figure, which instantly started screaming and wriggling to get out of his grasp. "Now this is what I call playing ball with a German general." He leisurely cast the little Burkhalter from one hand to the other.

"Hogan!" Klink hissed. "You can't do that with a general! Put him down!"

"Sure." Hogan put down the sprattling little General on the humidor. "Gee, where did you get him, Kommandant? Do they have little Hitlers as well? And little Görings? And... no... Little Klinks perhaps? That would be the greatest souvenir of the war!"

"Do you think so?" For a moment, Klink lost himself in visions of shop-shelves full with little Klinks, but he quickly recollected himself. "Hogan, what do you know about this? It was the ray from _your_ gun that did this to poor General Burkhalter."

Hogan's eyebrows shot up. "_My_ gun? Kommandant, you hurt me! I'm a prisoner in the toughest POW camp in Germany – how should I come by a gun?"

"Then what's this?" Klink held up the pale blue gun.

"Never seen it before in my life," Hogan stated flatly. (And for once, he actually spoke the truth.)

"I checked with Sergeant Dingel of the Supply Office. He says that unless it's classified top top secret, it's not one of ours. And if it'd be so top top secret, it wouldn't make sense for them to drop it in a camp full of Allied prisoners as they did. So it has to be one of yours," Klink argued. "It was dropped over the camp from a small plane early this morning. It gives off a bright-coloured ray. And..." He gulped. "I accidentally shot General Burkhalter with it when he startled me."

"And now look at me," the little Burkhalter fumed.

Hogan stared at Klink in disbelief. And then his eyes wandered to the little figure on the humidor. "You mean..." He hesitated. "You mean to tell me that it's some kind of shrink-gun, and that this is the _real_ General Burkhalter?" Heck, who'd believe that, even in wartime?

But Klink nodded solemnly in reply. "Yes, Hogan. This is the grand General Burkhalter himself – only in pocket-size."

Hogan kept staring at the miniature Burkhalter. This just wasn't possible, was it?

"So, Hogan, since this is obviously some trick from your side, how do you propose to get me back to normal? I can't very well fight the war like this."

A chuckle found its way past Hogan's stupefaction. "Well, General, you could certainly undertake some truly unique missions in this size, but you're right – I don't think the German General Staff would take you very seriously."

"Exactly. So what cure do you propose?"

Hogan shrugged. "Since I'm not the instigator, I really wouldn't know. Maybe find a magician to reverse the spell?"

"We're not talking about something nonsensical like magic, Hogan. This is for real," Klink chided him.

"Well, then I can only surmise that if you shrank from the ray of that gun, then obviously the gun is where you need to start." He reached for it, but General Burkhalter slapped his hand. It felt like a fly bumping into his skin.

"Don't you dare touch that gun, Hogan! You'd just finish off Klink's work and get me down to microscopical size! Maybe even to non-existence!"

Hogan shrugged. "Well, you figure it out then. It's your problem; not mine. I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman that I had nothing to do with it. I've never seen a gun like that in my life."

Gingerly, Klink picked up the weapon in question again. "Maybe one of these buttons at the top will reverse the process?"

"Is it still loaded?" Hogan inquired. He couldn't help it – he sure was curious. If this was for real... a weapon like this in the hands of the Nazis could lose them the war in a matter of days! Imagine entire armies being turned into six-inch pipsqueaks...!

Klink aimed the gun at the chair again, only to have a screaming little Burkhalter running for cover behind Klink's helmet.

"Don't worry, Herr General. The purple ray has no effect on a chair." He squeezed the trigger. And again, tighter. And again.

"Must be empty," Hogan concluded, and expertly, in that totally natural way of his, he took the mysterious gun from Klink's hand. He tried the other buttons, tried the trigger again – but nothing happened. Empty indeed.

"Well, General, whatever is going to fix you, it won't be this gun."

Burkhalter positively wailed. "Then what am I going to do? I can't stay like this! I'll be the laughing stock of Berlin!"

"Well, I suppose you could at least wait and see if the problem solves itself. Who knows – the spell's power could run out overnight and you'd be back to your grand old self in the morning."

"But what do I do in the meantime? I can't go home like this!" A sharp intake of breath. "What if my wife gets her hands on me?" He shuddered at the mere thought.

Hogan shrugged. "Surely Kommandant Klink would be happy to put you up in his humidor. Wouldn't you, Kommandant?"

"Uhm..."

"I will not sleep in a humidor," Burkhalter grumbled.

"Well, frankly, General, I thought it was a lousy neighbourhood anyway, so here on the Kommandant's desk. The decor is positively depressing! But beggars can't be choosers, you know."

"I'll sleep in Klink's bed!" Burkhalter declared.

"And what about me?" Klink squeaked.

"You can sleep with the General, can't you? He's so small; he doesn't take up much space for a change. You know, you could even cuddle him to your chest, like a teddy-bear..."

"Hogannn!" Klink hissed, and Burkhalter's eyes shot fire, but Hogan continued undeterred (while unobtrusively slipping the mysterious gun into his pocket), "And I can send over LeBeau later, to cook you a nice miniature dinner. He's French; he can cook anything, even in tiny little portions."

"No, thank you," Burkhalter huffed. "I do not trust that little man. The mere fact that he can cook _anything_ is what worries me: he might just decide to cook _me_!"

Hogan grinned. "In any case, you can't complain that I didn't offer. Well, Kommandant, I'll leave you to your duties as host then. General." He sketched Burkhalter a perfect but thoroughly irreverent salute, and added mischievously before pulling the door shut behind him, "Have a nice day you two!"

"A nice day?" Burkhalter bellowed in outrage again. "This is your idea of 'a nice day'? Being the size of a guinea-pig and dependent on Klink's fickle protection – it's the worst day of my life!"

Hogan popped his grinning head back in. "Well, let's face it, General. No day is perfect." And he pulled back again before Burkhalter managed to heft Klink's eraser to throw it at him.

.

Back in the barracks, his men immediately crowded around him.

"What was that we heard over the coffeepot, governor? Has old Burkhalter shrunk to a little pipsqueak?"

"About six inches tall," Hogan confirmed. "And funny as it is, this is serious business, guys. I'll..."

"I'll get over there and start on their lunch," LeBeau grinned, and he already grabbed his coat and scarf.

"What are you going to do – feed little Burkhalter to the dogs?" Newkirk asked.

"He'd make for a nice treat, yes," LeBeau agreed. "But I was more thinking along the lines of Burkhalter Bourguignon with an exquisite sauce Albertoise, and Général Flambé for dessert."

Kinch chuckled. "LeBeau, you're the best enemy a man ever had. But if he's only six inches tall, I don't think you're going to get that much mileage of him."

"He'd make for a nice big lollipop," Carter giggled. "Though I don't think I'd like the flavour."

"Hold it." Hogan held up his hands. "LeBeau, your dinner menu does not meet with approval – we need to keep Burkhalter in place in order to keep Klink in place."

"Little Burkhalter or Grand Burkhalter?" Newkirk inquired.

"Either one, but preferably the grand one. The little one's credibility score is too low for our purposes." He took out the ray-gun. "But this is the weapon that caused it. For now, it's our only clue on how to get him back to normal, but unfortunately, Klink seems to have emptied the charge when he shot Burkhalter with it. Carter, I want you to go to your lab and see what you can find out. Maybe there's some residue left in the chamber or something."

.

The day proved to be rather torturous for both Klink and Burkhalter. While Carter was trying to decipher the gun's mysteries down in his lab, Klink tried to do some paperwork. But he was never at his best when someone was critically watching his every move, and the General's acid comments and all too audible snorts just caused him to make more mistakes.

The fact that the camp's rumour mill was running rampant didn't improve the situation. Anyone who could think of an excuse to go and see the Kommandant came in to have a look at the little Burkhalter, and it being Fräulein Hilda's day off, especially the guards could just waltz in there whenever they pleased. Klink had never had so many visitors in a week – let alone in a single day.

_Knock knock._ And yet another one...

"Who is it?" Klink called in a tired tone.

"It's Corporal Langenscheidt, Herr Kommandant. With Heidi."

"Who?"

Burkhalter glared at Klink. "What is this – do you allow women in the camp?"

But Langenscheidt already answered through the door, "One of the dogs, Herr Kommandant. She has a problem. Can I come in, please? I think we may need to call the vet."

"Oh, for heaven's sake... Yes, come in, come in. Now what is it?"

The door opened and the ever timid Langenscheidt came in, holding one of the fierce guard dogs on leash. His eyes were immediately glued to Klink's humidor though.

And his were not the only ones...

"What are you staring at, Corporal?" Burkhalter demanded.

"Grrrrr," came it menacingly from the German shepherd who pushed her nose up on the humidor.

And Burkhalter shrieked. "Get that monster away from me!" He jumped off the humidor and ran across Klink's desk, half slipping on one of Klink's papers.

"Wroof wroof!" Heidi easily pulled the leash out of Langenscheidt's hand. "Wroof wroof!"

"Klink! Save me! Quick!" Burkhalter yelled.

Klink grabbed his helmet and smashed it down over the General. But hitting moving targets had never really been his forte. So he missed, causing the sudden forceful air displacement to topple over General Burkhalter and blowing him straight off the table...

"Aaargh!" There was a violent rustle of papers.

"Wroof wroof, wroof!" Heidi barked, and dashed to that side of Klink's desk.

"Noooo!" Klink wailed. "General Burkhalter! Langenscheidt, get that dog out of here! He's going to eat the General!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Langenscheidt trembled as he shot off a frightened salute while trying to get hold of the dog's leash again. "Heidi, come! Down! Play dead!"

It took some doing to get the dog away from the waste-basket, but in the end, Klink could grab it away from the dog and frantically search through its contents. "General Burkhalter! General Burkhalter, where are you? Are you still alive?"

"Atchoo!" came it from deep down in the basket. And, "Atchoo! Atchoo! Atchoo!"

Down there, crawled under a protective layer of waste-paper, was General Burkhalter, from head to toe covered in the remnants of Klink's morning routine of pencil sharpening.

Another violent sneeze as he tried to shake himself free from the flimsy woodshavings. "Klink! I have _never_ been so humiliated in my _life_!"

"Of course, Herr General," Klink twittered nervously as he fished up the General from the messy abyss of the waste-basket. "But as Hogan said: no day is perfect."

.

Still, Burkhalter found it even more humiliating to be carried off to bed in Klink's hand that evening, and to have Klink carefully snuggle up behind him. And after today, he sure had become an expert when it came to humiliating experiences. The mere thought of sitting at the edge of Klink's plate and eating measly crumbs with his fingers for lack of any proper sized cutlery still set his cheeks aflame with embarrassment... Not to mention having to relieve himself in an egg-cup...

But then, what alternative did he have for the night? Getting lost on the wide plains of sheets and blankets? Klink's humidor was no option. And going home to his wife was totally out of the question.

As it was, it turned out the nightmare was about to end. For early in the morning, a sleeping Klink found himself suddenly being pushed out of bed by the tremendous force of General Burkhalter reverting to his regular size.

From the floor, a slightly dazed Klink stared at the mass of Burkhalter in his bed. So it was as Hogan thought, he realized with a sigh of relief. Mother Nature had sorted out the problem herself.

He shook his head, and clambered to his feet, rubbing his bruised hip. "Donnerwetter... Mother Nature sure is powerful when she wants to be. Especially when her name is Burkhalter!"

.

**The End**

.

.

* This is a phonetic reproduction of General or Common Alienese. Unfortunately, exolinguistic spelling is not my field of expertise, so I apologize in advance for any stupid mistakes on my part. I sincerely hope my spelling goofs will not affect your understanding of the lines in question.

** No aliens were harmed in the conception, writing and publishing of this story – at least not that I'm aware of. The same goes for generals.


End file.
